


Crimson Skies

by AlannasTara



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Murder, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6704773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlannasTara/pseuds/AlannasTara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carol is desperate for freedom. She goes on the run, trying to escape her bloody past, but will it catch up to her? AU inspired by Sky, Norman Reedus' movie. Carol/Daryl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning: Contains graphic images, violence, and scenes that may be disturbing for some readers.**
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> _Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._
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> **AN: Thanks to Meeshie, Illusianation, and whowhatsitwhich for giving this a look over for me!**

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_[edit by @alannastara]_

 

 

_She hit him with the lamp. Over and over, her arm descended, heedless of the crimson spray splattering her face, her hands, her arms, the sheets…_

 

_She hit him until her arm was too heavy to lift, muscles aching, screaming in pain at the exertion. Her face was wet and she could hear the sobs, not immediately recognizing them as her own, as tears streamed down her cheeks. The trails of liquid, swirling with ruby red droplets of blood, pooled on the sheets beneath her head, soaking and staining everything it touched. She was sinking, drowning. Her body felt heavy, weighted as she was dragged into the blackness, the bog of unconsciousness engulfing her._

 

*****

 

She woke up crouched in the bottom of the tub, cold water streaming over her from the showerhead. Shivering.

 

How long had she been in the shower?

 

She vaguely recalled a fight, some yelling, and then everything went fuzzy. She lifted her arm, which felt like it was weighted with armor, over to turn the shower off and cut the water. The dripping and the flickering hum of the fluorescent light over the bathroom sink humming in her ear, were the only noises piercing her skull with a vengeance.

 

“Ed?” Carol called out for her husband, hoping he could explain what happened.

 

There was no response.

 

She struggled to stand on her own two feet, wobbling in the process. She clasped the towel bar, hanging on for balance while she gained her equilibrium again. She looked down her pale, milky flesh, saw the discolorations, the bruises in shapes of fingers and fists, ranging in color from a blackening violet hue to the aging yellowing marks. His hand-marks littering her body told a story no one needed words to hear.

 

  
“Ed? Are you there?” She cried out again, wincing at the ache and hoarseness of her voice.

 

Still, no answer.

 

She clambered from the tub, searching for a towel, only to come up empty. Dripping, she stepped gingerly into the hotel room, glancing around for something to dry herself.

 

That’s when she saw him. It was only sheer shock and surprise that kept her from screaming as she looked upon her husband sprawled on the bed, bloody and beaten.

 

_Lifeless._


	2. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We meet some new (old) faces, and delve a little deeper into our characters. We are pretty heavy on the angst right now, and it's going to get rougher before it gets better, but this story will eventually end on a happy caryl note. In case anyone gets worried. :-)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you to the ever so lovely Stephtron312 for betaing this for me! Love you bby!!!**

**_Run_ **

 

She looked in her rear view mirror for the fifteenth time, hands shaking on the steering wheel. Her heart pounded out a strange beat, thumping so hard she felt the ache in her chest. Or maybe it was the bruises covering her breasts and abdomen. Her stomach rolled and she felt the wave of nausea flow over her.

 

This was madness. She’d never get away. They'd come for her, take her away, and she’d never see the light of day again. She would never see the pillowy clouds against the cornflower backdrop of the sky. She would miss the green of the trees, the rich brown, warm earth tones of the desert. She'd never see the ocean, explore all the places she wanted to visit.

 

Since she was a girl growing up on her daddy’s knee, listening to his deep baritone voice spin tales of all the cities he’d seen and all the people he’d met, she longed to make those experiences her own. There was a wanderlust deep within her that he stoked with his stories.

 

It was only after she'd laid the flowers on his headstone and gone to her high school graduation from the cemetery, she realized she was never getting out of that town. All those doors were shut to her. Young and scared, when Ed had took an interest in her, taking advantage of her vulnerability, she had grabbed at the chance to not be alone.

 

It had seemed her future was written in stone. Carved and etched into her skin with each slap, each hit.

 

Last night had wiped the slate clean.

 

Almost.

 

She felt the weight press in on her again, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Dread. Gloom. Foreboding. Just waiting for the floor to drop even further from beneath her. The tears came without warning, spilling over her cheeks and dripping onto the seat-belt.

 

Ed was dead. She had killed him. She’d taken a life. The life of her husband.

 

Of all the things that had been drilled into her when she was growing up, the Ten Commandments was at the top of the list. Hair in ribbons and curls, black patent leather shiny shoes, frilly dress dripping in ruffles and lace, she would stand in front of the church and sing with the other kids. Strains of “ _He’s got the whole world in His hands_ ,” ringing in the rafters. “ _Honor Your Father and Mother_ ,” repeating over and over. “ _For God so loved the world…_ ”

 

And so it went. Everything she’d been taught, everything she'd lived by and and tried to model her life after...in one night she’d bludgeoned it to death.

 

Her tears choked her, sobbing, she could barely see the road and had to pull over to gain control of her emotions. Flickering behind her eyes, flashes of blood spatter, bruises, and fists flying, mixed in with the soft brown eyes of her dad, his hands rough and work-worn gentling on her shoulders, and the laughing smile he always had for her. She could smell his Brut aftershave mixed with the rich aroma of coffee. The scent that greeted her every Sunday morning, always signaling that it was time for church.

 

Her chest heaved, each breath getting harder to breathe through the tears and snot. She cried for her dad. For disappointing him. She cried that her life turned out this way-nothing happened like she'd dreamed it would. She bawled for her future, and the bleak unknown. Her heart seized when she gave over to the grief and the terror. The stark fear that she had now sealed her fate, and she would never see her father again.

 

“ _I’m so sorry, daddy. I’m so sorry,”_ she whispered between sobs, her hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckle force.

 

She didn't know how long she sat there on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, but eventually she began to calm. Her breath hiccuping, the length between cries growing until she was simply drained. Completely empty. Her body was heavy, exhausted, and she blinked against the stinging sensation of her tired eyes.  

 

She longed to go to sleep right there in the car. Maybe she just wouldn’t wake up again. It would be a relief. No more pain.

 

* * *

  


“Long time, no see, stranger. Where you been?” Tara slid the shot glass overflowing with Jack Daniels across the bar to the man sitting there, working on what looked like his third cigarette.

 

“Been around.” The gravelly voice rasped out, before he lifted the drink to his lips and downed it.

 

“No shit? I've missed ya,” Tara replied, sweeping the remnants of peanut shells off the counter, courtesy of the last esteemable patron to sit at the bar. Swinging the towel up on her shoulder she looked at him, trying to catch his eye.

 

He mumbled something, avoiding looking at her, and flipped the glass upside down. With a wave of his hand he signaled for another shot.

 

“Hey, sugar, another round over here!”

 

The slurred call from the darkened corner had her scowling in their direction.

 

“I'm not your sugar, Tom, best get that straight right now, or you’re gonna be lapping your beer off the floor!”

 

Daryl chuckled and she grinned at him while sliding him his shot.

 

“Haven't changed a bit, have ya?”

 

Tara held out her fist and Daryl bumped his fist into hers.

 

“You know it. I better go take care of those assholes now, before they disrupt all the “feng shui” I’ve got going on in here.”

 

“Fwaaa what?”

 

“It’s another way to say um...peace, harmony… zen, dude. I’m not trying to have them ruin my zen.”  With that Tara grabbed up some pitchers of beer and started for the corner.

 

The rest of the night Tara was hopping, so busy in fact that she didn't see when Daryl threw down a tip and slipped quietly out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

Ash flicked from the glowing tip of the cigarette as Daryl swung his leg over the bike. He sat the helmet on the back of the bike (he never rode without one, especially now), and trudged up the rickety wooden steps to the cabin he called home. Deep in the brush of Spring Mountain State Park, where he worked as a ranger, this was one of the few places he could find peace. Out here he could be himself. No one to tell him what to do, how to act, what he should be… _what a Dixon should be._

 

***

 

_“You can’t just sit home all the damn time, lil’ brother. It ain't healthy. Ya need to get outta here. Live some!”_

 

_Daryl rounded on Merle, his face flushed, arm swinging._

 

_“Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone, huh? I ain’t bothering you none. Get out, I ain’t stopping you!”_

 

_“Fuck, Daryl, I’m tellin’ ya, ya can’t just stay in all the fuckin’ time.” Merle teetered in the doorway to Daryl’s room._

 

_“Man, get outta my face! That ain't me! This,” Daryl motioned around them, “this is who I am. Right here. Nothin’ special, just like the ol’ man said.”_

 

_“Fuck you then! I ain’t got time for this shit!” Merle yelled as he stormed out the front door and slammed it._

 

_“Go ahead and leave!” Daryl yelled after him. “It’s what you're good at!”_

 

_***_

 

His eyes stung as he recalled that night. The last words he’d spoken to Merle. Merle, drunk off his ass, left the bar that night on his bike, but he'd never made it home. Daryl spent the night pissed off at his older brother, not knowing that across town, he was bleeding out on the pavement.

 

Then there was the knock at the door and all it brought with it, forever changing his life. The patronizing calm of the officer’s tone when he informed Daryl he was now, for all intents and purposes, all alone in the world. He was angry at the officers, at the world, for taking and taking and taking from him, and never giving anything in return. Crushed under the guilt, he castigated himself for being so selfish and not leaving with Merle that night.

  
Once the police released the bike, he loaded it in his pickup and took off halfway across the country, leaving it all behind him. Hoping if he ran far enough he could outrun it all, forget the pain, the loneliness, and the emptiness that grew inside him until he felt like it was swallowing him whole.


	3. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol finds help in the strangest place and Daryl takes in a stray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! It's been over a year since this has been updated. I sincerely apologize. My muse has been extremely unkind to me, but hopefully that is in the past. 
> 
> Thank you to whowhatsitwhich for being an amazing and generous beta!

The knocking pierced her consciousness, and she turned slowly, sighing a deep breath of relief when all she saw was the elderly man at her window, clutching a fisherman’s hat in his fist. 

 

“Miss? Miss, are you okay?” 

His voice was muffled coming through the tempered glass, and she leaned over to crack the window, thankful for the breeze, hot as it was, blowing gently across her sweaty, flushed skin. She licked her dry and cracked lips, realizing just how parched she was, drained of fluids from the tears and sweat. She was dangerously close to dehydration. 

 

“Do you need help?”

 

She almost laughed at the ludicrousness of the question. If she had stumbled across someone in obvious tears on the side of the highway, with bruises marring their face, it would be pretty obvious to her that he or she needed help. 

 

“Want me to take a look under the hood?” 

 

The old man tried again to garner some response from her, and she realized she had been sitting quietly, just staring at him without answering.  She wiped her face with the back of her hand, and through a hoarse voice, ravaged by a choking fist and sobbing cries, she spoke. 

 

“I think it’s just out of gas.”

 

“Oh, well,  I saw a sign a few miles back for a gas station. We could give you a lift?”

 

She hesitated, unsure what she should do, what would be the right move. He looked harmless enough. 

 

“Dale? Is the poor dear okay?”

 

Carol started, turning at the high-pitched melodic voice coming from behind the car. 

 

“Don’t mind her, miss, that’ just my wife, Irma. I’m Dale,” he said, introducing themselves, then turned to the women who spoke. “She thinks she’s out of gas. We could give her a ride, don't you think?”

 

“Oh the poor thing, of course!” 

 

The woman approached, looking like someone’s grandma. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled up into a loose bun, curly wisps floating around her ears and the nape of her neck. Her denim jean skirt hit below the knee, and the paisley blue and green polyester blouse was buttoned to the top and tucked in neatly. Pearly white Keds finished off the look. Carol examined her perhaps a mite too long, and the woman smiled, waiting for Carol to look at her directly before she spoke to her. 

 

“You’ll come with us, won’t you? We have some bottled water in the RV. You must be parched, you poor, poor dear.” 

 

The woman clucked and shook her head, motioning for Carol  to get out of the car and follow her. Carol glanced at the car around her, seeing but not seeing, trying to determine what to do. She didn't have many belongings, just a slouchy hobo bag, into which she had stuffed what few things she took with her out of the motel. She finally moved, jerking limbs and disjointed movements, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she turned to get out of the car. 

 

Dale helped her get on her feet, slinging one arm gently around her lower back to support her as he walked her to the RV where Irma was waiting, having already ducked inside to grab a water bottle for her. 

 

“Thank you,” Carol said, her voice barely more than a whisper, rough and hoarse, taking the bottle from Irma’s gentle, weathered hands. 

 

“It’s no trouble at all...bless your heart,” Irma replied quietly, concern written on her face. “Careful, hon, you don’t want to choke. We’ve got plenty where that came from, no need to hurry.”  Irma watched as Carol went from taking greedy gulps to slower, tinier sips of water, and a hint of a smile threatened the corner of her mouth. 

 

She brushed her hand over Carol’s arm, meaning to comfort the woman with a motherly pat on the shoulder, but Carol’s very noticeable flinch had her thinking twice and the barely there smile disappeared altogether. She shot a knowing look to Dale, reading in his eyes the same thing she was thinking. Coupled with the visible bruises, split lip, and the way the woman babied her arm, moving it gingerly, it was obvious the girl had recently had a heap of trouble. 

 

“I’m Irma; this is my husband, Dale. What’s your name, sweetie?”

 

Carol hesitated, her arm hovering mid-air where she was lowering the water bottle from her mouth. Her heart beat faster, her chest flushing with heat, and she wiped her sweaty hand on the fabric of her pants, swiping it over her thigh nervously. 

 

“N-Nancy.” 

 

“Well, Nancy, I’m so happy my husband is bound and determined never to ask for directions, because if we had stopped earlier, we might not have found you. You need help, dear?” 

 

It was a cross between a statement and a question, Irma inflecting her voice just enough to leave open room for interpretation and for Carol to acknowledge or refute the assumption. 

“I just need my car-”   
  


“Then it’s settled.” Irma cut Carol off mid-sentence. “You’ll come with us ‘til we reach the next gas station and we’ll see if we can’t call a tow truck. We’ll get you all fixed up in no time.” 

 

“Oh, I couldn’t - I don’t want-”

 

“Nonsense,” Irma said, interrupting her again. “You can and you will. You need help, dear.” Irma gentled her voice and tone and knelt down before the step leading into the RV, where Carol was seated, looking her in the eyes. “Let us help you.” She paused, carefully thinking over her next words, and clasping Carol’s hand in both of her own. “This is your chance,” she urged. “Grab hold of it, and don’t let go.”

 

* * *

  
  


The RV rattled and bumped along the dusty highway, lumbering along at an easy pace, as unhurried and lazy as the tortoise Carol noticed in the dirt next to the road. Dale whistled a cheerful tune as Irma poked through cabinets and gathered up bandages and some medicine. 

 

“I was a school nurse for 23 years, so I know a few things about patching people up. Look here, sweetie.” Irma wiped some dried blood off of Carol’s busted lip, and the cut along her temple. “You don’t have to talk about it, but I'm a good listener, if you ever feel like talking, okay?” 

 

Carol nodded her head gingerly, trying not to move too much while the sweet, grandmotherly lady dabbed some cold peroxide on her wounds, and finished up with some antibiotic cream to protect them. 

 

“T-Thank you...for everything,” Carol said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you-  hadn’t come along. I- I’m just a mess. I’m so sorry.” Tears threatened the corner of her eyes as she thought about everything that happened over the last 48 hours. She was completely overwhelmed by it all, the trouble she had stringing her words together was just one symptom of the shock that was taking over. 

 

“Oh, honey.” Irma clucked sympathetically and grasped Carol’s trembling hands. Her shoulders were shaking and the tremors were vibrating her entire frame. “Let me get you a blanket, and some hot soup.” 

 

Irma grabbed a throw off the bed in the back and wrapped it around Carol’s shoulders before she started heating up some soup. 

 

“Nothing like some of Irma’s good ol’ chicken noodle soup to heal what ails you,” called Dale from the driver’s seat. “She makes the best chicken noodle soup this side of the Mississippi. And her chicken and dumplings? Mmm-mm, that's like heaven in a bowl.” 

 

Carol smiled a watery smile, hearing the love and warmth in Dale’s voice as he spoke about his wife. It wrenched a part of her deep inside, seeing this bald, bold admiration, respect...a healthy relationship...everything she never had. 

 

Irma sat a large mug full of steaming soup in front of Carol, laying a sleeve of crackers next to it, and a bottle of Gatorade. It looked exactly like the kind of meal her mom would make for her when she was sick as a child. Laid up on the couch watching Price is Right with a box of Kleenex in her lap, and her grandmama’s heavy quilt covering her from chin to toes. She wondered absently whatever had happened to that quilt. 

 

She gripped the warm mug and sipped the soup, taking care not to burn her tongue,  the broth warming her from the inside out as she swallowed it down. Irma patted her shoulder as she moved past her towards the back of the RV, but not before handing her a bottle of Tylenol. 

 

“I’m gonna make you a place to get some rest, Nancy,” Irma said, and Carol stiffened at the reminder of the alias she’d given the couple. “You finish up your food, get some shut-eye, and you’ll feel so much better.” 

 

Later, as Carol nestled down into the blankets and settled her head onto the cool cotton encasing the fluffy down pillow, her aching body finally able to relax, her mind drifted into welcome blackness, empty and peaceful. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Daryl stepped out onto his porch with his cup of coffee in hand, whorls of steam swirling into the brisk morning air. He sipped at the dark roasted brew, bitter and strong, just like he liked it, as he watched the sun perk up over the mountainous horizon. This was his favorite time of day: cool and crisp, the air clean, the day new. A chance to be better than yesterday. 

 

He tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray sitting on the porch rail, knocking off the ash, the nicotine spreading through his veins, giving him that added kickstart to his day. He’d use a patch for the rest of the day, not wanting to threaten the forest with fires from stray sparks, but here, on his own porch in the dawning light of a new day, he liked the physical feel of the smoke in his hand and the flavor on his tongue. Real and harsh and coarse, just like him…just like his world. 

 

He finished his morning preparations, refilling his provisions and medical supplies, checking his gun before holstering it, and placing his Stetson on his head as he hopped up into his work jeep, and began on his daily perimeter check around the park. 

 

His duties varied by the day and some days were more routine than others. Whether it was passing out citations, helping rescue injured animals and sometimes people, or organizing search and rescue missions, he always had something to keep him busy. 

 

He made it a point to hit the picnic area at least once during the day to make sure no one was starting fires or trashing the place, made his way around the lake to check for people swimming (which was against the rules due to nature preservation laws), and hiked the trails to look for anything amiss. Every so often he’d get a call over the radio of someone having questions for him down at the visitor’s center, but he tried to avoid the ranch site (and people) if possible. 

 

He’d just ended his trek around Lake Herriot, and was taking the trail up to the overlook before breaking for lunch, when he heard the rustling in the brush. Out here it could be anything from a fox to a coyote, though most of the animals tended to venture out only at night. So the snuffling noise was a little unusual, but then he heard the weak bark, a yip really, coming from the shallow scrub and he stopped to take a closer look. 

 

The rustling paused, and the yipping increased, eventually becoming a whine, and Daryl could just make out a snout in the dirt in front of him, obscured by the prickly Black brush. Daryl nudged the vegetation out of the way, thankful for the leather tanned-hide work gloves he had to protect his hands. 

 

His breath caught at the pitiful sight at his feet. A small beagle was entangled in the scrub, his fur matted and dirty, and blood staining his paws and snout. Despite his predicament, his ears perked up when he saw Daryl, and the whine took on new life, energized at the sight of a human, and possible rescue. 

 

“Hey there buddy,” Daryl murmured.  “How’d you get all the way out here? Huh?” He gentled his hand over the dog’s head, both caressing and protecting him from the thorns as he untangled him from the branches with his free hand. The dog sniffed and licked at Daryl’s wrist, his legs and feet scrabbling for purchase as he tried to assist Daryl in freeing himself from his entanglement. “Don’t you fret none, bud, we’ll get you all sorted out,” Daryl spoke softly, trying to soothe and calm the animal until finally he was able to lift the pup into his arms. 

 

His hand caught on a collar, and he could see it used to be a nice one. That, in addition to its general well-kept appearance (dirty and matted fur aside), made it clear the dog was domesticated. 

 

“You used to be somebody’s, didn’t ya? Don’t you worry. You’re safe now. I gotcha.” The cadence of his voice deep and slow settled the animal and it burrowed itself down into Daryl’s arms, resting peacefully, as Daryl carried him  back to his Jeep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> xoxoxo


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